


Acts of Rebellion

by smut_buddies



Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Sloppy Wet Junk is what I'm saying, Tentabulges, which becomes More Enthusiastic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 05:53:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12125955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smut_buddies/pseuds/smut_buddies
Summary: You've kind of been wondering why he's never tried this before. It seems like his kind of thing; push you to do something uncomfortable, or uh, unpleasant, to help you. Test your limits. You usually see that he's right, in the end.





	Acts of Rebellion

**Author's Note:**

> hah this is going to be outdated as soon as we get another act, but w/e, I want to express my love for these dorks by making their big wiggly dicks kiss. It's also a stab in the dark for Dammek's characterization. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy my first foray into tentabulge porn ❤

Part of you must have been waiting for this, for sweeps and sweeps, and that's why it's not a surprise when he pauses the game that he'd been not-really playing, and that you'd been trying harder and harder to focus on as you felt his attention slipping away. He'd been winning anyway, and even after the pause screen flashes up it takes you a minute to lower your controller and turn to face him, and you didn't even realise how long you've been waiting for him to try this.

Maybe it's knowing he's got a live feed into your bedroom. Maybe it's that time he brought you those contraband filth booklets, the ones with the girls with their spheres out and artfully curled bulges and boys with nooks so wet they'd looked sort of glazed, and you hadn't really known what to do, so you'd said they were nice, half-heartedly, and Dammek had just watched your face inscrutably from behind his shades. Maybe it's just the way he's been lately, and both of you know he's getting older, and both of you know that maybe it's not all as 100% sorted as you both like to think, and maybe he's going to go to space and you'll just, be here.

You can't say that out loud. It's treason as bad as the other kind, that he prompts you to say all the time. That probably makes it  _worse_  treason, even. You believe in Dammek with everything you have, and he's a genius, and of course all his plans are going to go off without a hitch. Except, sometimes, in the past, there were hitches. You've seen them hitch. And the heiress is kind of unbelievably powerful. And there's maybe a non-zero chance that this sweep is the sweep where you lose him forever.

He leans over you, and your fingers tighten stupidly around the controller, like if you're still holding it there's still a chance he's just going to put the game back on. But then he says, "Xefros," in the Testing voice, the one that means there's a Challenge You've Got To Rise To, and all you can see in his shades is your own nervous expression. "You've never had a concupiscent partner."

It's not a question, because he knows the answer. Somehow, whenever one of your neighbours or a stickball teammate started getting close enough and showing enough teeth that you could imagine them in a quadrant, Dammek was there with his claws in your shoulder in a very un-moirail kind of way. He said it was because it was too dangerous letting someone else in when you were both so embroiled with the rebellion; and if you got to talking to a fellow rustblood rebel, then you had to back off, because 'it could compromise the integrity of our mission'.

He always had an answer, and he's never breathed a word about flipping, except now he's looking right down at you and his fangs are beautifully sharp, and you're terrible at reading him but the mood's gone so strange you can't imagine what else it could be. You've never known for sure whether or not he was watching your room, when you started experimenting with your bulge around your fingers, and even though you kept your back to the camera, even though you were sunk in the sopor to the tips of your ears and you knew he couldn't see your face burning, you'd still think about him  _watching_  and ruin the slime with your ruddy gross slurry.

You kind of just wish he'd take the shades off so you could stop watching yourself guess at the right answer. "Bro," you say, and it's a croak, too fearful, and any other time you'd be opening yourself up for another round of How To Not Talk Like A Lowblood, but you already know you're not taking this train off the tracks, "You want to do it like this?"

"Subverting the prescribed quadrant system is an important act of social liberalism," Dammek tells you, claiming the slightly oily trophy for Least Sexy Dialogue. A beat later, and he asks, "You've never seen  _Rails with Pails_?"

You never have, afraid of what it might suggest to you, afraid that it might try and open some doors that you have been stacking boxes up in front of in an attempt to keep them closed. Boxes full of mixed and timid feelings about your best friend. He is now rifling through your metaphorical hive as surely as he ransacks the real one. It still does not really occur to you to stop him.

Instead, you put the controller down, and watch it skitter away to under the television. Tetrarch Dammek is close enough that you can see old grubsauce stains on his shirt, and you briefly fixate on whether that would have been from before or after you laundered it, and if you need stronger soaps, and then his fingers slide under your chin as he says, "Look at me."

"Sorry," you say immediately, because even if he can't  _actually_  read your mind, he can approximate it well enough to know when you're avoiding something. His fingers feel a little cool on your skin, since no one runs hotter than a rustblood, particularly not a rustblood who is getting all flustered under their moirail's hands in precisely the opposite way that their moirail is meant to make them feel. You're close to him, all the time, but not quite like this, and you think he's got to be as aware of it as you are. You can't take your eyes off his face, not after he's told you where he wants you looking, but in your peripheral vision, you think you see something stirring in his pants and your pusher gives a helpless little thud. Okay. Yeah. This is happening, and it's time to get okay with that, very quickly.

You dare to hope that maybe it could even be  _good_ , except that there's mostly nervousness coiling around in your gut and none of those warm and hungry feelings that the internet has suggested you should feel. None of the moist and sweaty ones implied by the explicit periodicals, either. Your bone bulge is not ready to go, it is ready to stay put, and maybe even tuck up a little more defensively. Touching your own nook still feels embarassing, and the thought of letting Dammek so much as see it has your appropriately-shameful blood rising to your cheeks.

He finally kisses you, experimental, and while you would certainly never say that the tetrarch is  _bad_  at kissing, he is maybe not as exceptional at it as you might have expected. It's a clatter of fangs and saliva, and he tries chewing your lip as well which you would appreciate more if you'd finished convincing yourself that you're up for this. You feel too warm and uncertain, and while Dammek's face doesn't give much away, you get the sense that he's less impressed by the collision than he should be. "Sorry," you tell him quickly, a full lifetime of subservience overriding all other preference in a heartbeat, "Sorry, I'm - I'll do better, if you want to try again?"

He leans back in, and you brace yourself a little better, and this time you focus on the proximity more than any specific sensation. The knowledge that it's Dammek hits you a little differently this time, and you realise that you should be  _flattered_  that he even wants to do this with you. His claws bite into your wrists; some pleased and husky sound rolls up your throat in response, surprising you but in a good way, which is unusual for surprises. Dammek seems more satisfied as he licks across your teeth, and his pleasure spurs you on, helps you arc up for him, makes it a whole lot clearer that all you need to do is make  _him_  happy, and then you'll be doing the right thing. The revelation is a huge relief. 

The loungeplanks you're on don't seem like the best place to be, but Dammek doesn't care, sitting down so he's straddling you, pinning you against the not-that-soft backing. He's close enough you think you can feel his bulge squirm against you, and if you could get any redder, you would. The thought of Dammek that interested in you, of him watching you and those feelings building up until he's ready to do something as subversively rebellious as this, it feels a little surreal and finally tips some heat down your spine. You love him more than anything; if he wants to flip, you'll flip for him. 

"You look good, bro," he tells you, and you think his voice might be a little rougher, but that might be your wistful imaginings. You fantasize about being bold enough to remove his shades, but you are not, and so he remains inscrutable as he instructs, "Get it out, then, let's see what we're working with." 

He has to sit up on his knees to give you enough wiggle room to get your pants down, but he makes it look as cool as everything, like yeah, watching a bro get his junk out, no big deal. It occurs to you that Dammek might have had concupiscent partners before, except you think that despite how devastatingly attractive is, he probably never had time between the rebellion and the band and helping you with everything he decided you needed help with. You feel a little bad for holding him back, and also very, very special, that you're as important to him as you keep hoping. 

It's that kind of feeling that can encourage your bulge, except you're still warming up and only the tip's really poking out, deep burgundy and tentatively gleaming. Dammek's face does not react; Dammek's bulge flexes hard against its canvas prison, clearly  _very_  intrigued, and finally, you have found a reliable way to read him. If only it was accessible in more situations. 

Carefully, Dammek eases a thumb over your bulge's tip, and a weird shudder runs backwards up your brainstem. That's - wow. Is that nice? It is probably nice, but also it is a lot. "So that's your colour, huh?" Dammek says, and it is not just your hopeful imagination, he is definitely a little husky, and that thrills you just as much as his thumb pad smoothing over you, luring your bulge out in tentative slides. "Want to see mine?" 

"Yes," you say, because it's the right answer, and then, "yes," because you want to, because you've  _thought_  about it, in your recuperacoon with your bulge helplessly extended. You might sound a little desperate, and sometimes he hates that, and sometimes he likes it, and this time it's enough to make him grin, and finally you know where you stand with him in this weird encounter. He smiles at you, and unfastens his own trousers, and it feels a lot less weird and a lot less like something moirails shouldn't be doing, and a lot more like a real and valid concupiscent flip. 

His bulge is already almost fully out, bronze and gleaming, twisting in the air with impatience that Dammek isn't telegraphing in any other way. He can't see yours to compare, but you know his is longer and thinner. It's beading burnished fluid, and a drip lands on your thigh; both of you look at it, and you're sure both of you think how good his colour looks against your skin. 

Finally, his touch has teased your own bulge out, and his stretches out to meet it; there's not that much space between the two of you, his hips almost aligned with yours, and his bulge is able to wind around your own. The sensation is instant and electric; different to the dry, steady feel of his hand, the bulge isdistinctively  _slippery_ , that little bit cooler, and twitchy. Every second it seems to slip around you differently, finding different angles to rub you over at, and you can't get used to the touch, gasping with the constant motion. 

It's so very new, so different from your fingers, and your blunt teeth gnaw your lip until Dammek's there again to distract you. You think you must have bitten your lip open, because you can taste that coppery tang, and you know he tastes it too when his bulge tangles further around yours and  _squeezes_. You don't know any words for feelings this nice. You say, "Dammek," because it's basically the same thing. 

He just says, "Yeah," and his bronze blood is shining in his cheeks, he's smiling at you like this is finally going according to plan, hitch-free except for your breath and his hips and all these constant little motions you can't  _help_  but make. You make a sound that could be described, unkindly, as a mewl. Dammek smooches you, as wet and sloppy as your entwined junk. Your thinkpan is starting to go a little soft, the buzz of anxiety that you live with slowly easing up, and yeah, this is nice, this is very very nice. Your bulge squeezes his back, and you get to watch Dammek jerk with it, something like a chitter lost in the back of his throat. 

You think you'd be happy with this, just this, forever, except that his bulge's attention span seems as short as his regular one, and it's starting to untangle from yours to play down at the base between your legs. That feels  _very_  nice, and you could watch him drip bronze fluid over your thighs all day, except you know what he wants and his legs are pinning yours too tight for you to give it to him. 

"Do you want to?" you ask him, even though he clearly does. You can't imagine anything better than making him happy this way. 

It's a quick shuffle to swap places, kick your pants off your ankles completely, sit splayed over his thighs. You can't see your own nook past your soft stomach but it  _feels_  wet, and you can tell by the tilt of Dammek's head that he's looking. Embarrassing, especially when you still can't see much of his, a coppery slit beneath his demanding bulge. He waits just long enough for you to settle, your claws nervously in his shoulders, your legs strangely, fearfully, excitedly  _open_ , and then he reaches out for you. 

The first brush of his bulge against your slit is surreal. It's the absence of friction, it's a moan you can't hold in, it's wet and alien and daring and  _good._ Your bulge races down to wind along his again, either to pull him up closer or to try and create some friction, but all you get is more of that absolute slickness. You slide up and down against him, but he is not distracted, his tip pushing into your nook's entrance, and you think  _he_  moans. You must be so hot around him; there's bronze on his lips, on his fangs, and gently, gently you lick it off. 

Part of you is aware that there is no coming back from this. If he wants to just be moirails again later, no more pails, no more of this slick heat and sensation, then that's what you'll be, but you'll  _know_. Each inch he slides into you is an unforgettable sensation, is something you can take back to your coon for the rest of your life if you need to, is something you can cling to when he's in space and all you've got is the memory of brown blood on your tongue and painting up your insides. You think that maybe this is what Dammek is trying to give you, and this is why he waited so long to give it. 

He is so good to you. You love him so worthlessly much. 

His bulge isn't that thick, but you still feel the pressure in the deepest parts of you, further than your fingers could ever reach. Your hips are flush, and your head is somewhere in the crook of his shoulder, breathing hard against his collarbone. It's all a lot, even if it is  _good_ , it's near overwhelming and a hell of a lot more than you'd been expecting to take to day. 

Your own bulge had been trying to wrap around his all the way to the base, but since your nook swallowed him, it winds slowly across his thighs. You can't see it between your bodies, but you think maybe this is an okay time to be a little bit daring, and when you let it reach under the root of Dammek's bulge he doesn't stop you, though the hands that had been soothing over your back get a little more clawful. 

The positioning's not right for you to get more than the tip in, but you work for that anyway, rubbing up against his nook until you find the entrance. It's sodden, and you imagine it dripping bronze, and you imagine that it's for  _you_ , and it's all incredibly exciting as you dare to wriggle just a little bit of your bulge up inside the tetrarch. 

He bites your shoulder. His bulge inside you  _throbs_. You think this is probably enough pleasure to kill a lowblood. You're practically delirious with how amazing everything feels, your bulge nestling into Dammek's nook while he stuffs you full and his teeth work a lover's lesion deep into your shoulder. Something in you feels very  _tight_ , and you think you can feel your heartbeat all the way up to your horns. You have never been this aware of your body your entire life. You think you might be saying, "Dammek," or you might just be moaning, or your moans might just happen to sound like his name, incidentally. 

He licks up your neck, the long way around your jaw to your mouth, and he's panting, rust blood dripping down his chin, and you no longer need him to take off his shades to understand him when his hands wrap tight around your waist and he forces a kiss on you, all fang and blood and loving desperation. 

You feel something like a pulse, warm and hungry, and you think your insides are rippling, and you think  _oh_  very ineloquently before you realise that you are coming, and you didn't get nearly far enough inside Dammek to do more than make a sticky red mess of his legs and your loungeplanks. Your bulge throbs, and your nook begins to feel a little sensitive, for the amount of bronze bulge that remains twisted up inside it, and your head feels very far away. Dammek is looking at you. The look you give him back is unschooled, tired, relaxed and sated, is a lot of things you've never felt before and a lot of things you were maybe hoping you wouldn't feel except you are, now, because he wanted you to. You are exactly what he wants you to be. 

You hide your head in his shoulder while he works his bulge inside you, biting his collar or your fist until you feel him stretch and tighten, deep enough to hit your seedflap, deep enough that when he comes, he comes  _in_  you, properly, a gush of fluids that makes you gasp and has your legs twitch in, though there's no way to disentangle, and no way the hands pinning your thighs would let you. 

It's not even that messy when he pulls out, just stray drips of copper from when he was feeling you out, unlike the ruddy splatter drying around his nook. You might have ruined the loungeplanks forever. You feel a little bit too tired to care, and full in a weird way, and you watched enough school feeds to know you need to find a pail, except you want to wait until Dammek's gone back home before you figure out that mortifying piece of maturity for yourself. 

"Did you uh," you try, watching him pull his pants back up. You are torn between putting pants back on to cover yourself, and not immediately ruining them with fluid. "Did you... like it?" You know you liked it, mostly, except that's not really important. 

His smile is pleased, sincere, the way it only is when you manage to properly follow your orders. "Beautiful work, bro. Very subversive. You took it like a champ." 

He heads back home, to solicit contacts or draft plans or ready a rebellion. You stagger upstairs to find a pail.


End file.
